


qu'est-ce qu'on a pas écrit sur elle et moi

by porcelain



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, bonnie and clyde more like dave and rose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 15:58:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/porcelain/pseuds/porcelain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His voice is dark and smooth, like warm liquor pooling in her stomach, so hopeful that she forgets the ache in her chest. She believes him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	qu'est-ce qu'on a pas écrit sur elle et moi

**Author's Note:**

> a [bonnie & clyde](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nB112Vbl8-A) inspired fic. otherwise, just an excuse to wax poetry. forgive me.

_qu'est-ce qu'on a pas écrit sur elle et moi  
_ (oh what they wrote about her and i)  
 _on prétend que nous tuons de sang froid  
_ (they say we're cold-blooded killers)  
 _c’est pas drôle mais on est bien oblige  
_ (it ain't much fun but we got no choice)  
 _de faire taire celui qui se met à gueuler  
_ (shut them up when they start shouting)

*

Rose’s hair is warm under a July sunset, blushing glow canvassing the west sky, yellow blots fading away. She’s lighting up her fourth, stretched out on the hood of the Impala, eyeing Dave as he tinkers with a lock and key that he stole two towns back.

When he’s done, he comes and climbs up, his shoulder bumping into hers. She opens her mouth, letting the smoke blow out in smooth puffs into the air. Dave leans in and licks her parted lips, tasting nicotine and vanilla cream, and steals the cigarette from out of her curled fingers.

After he brings it up to his own mouth, Rose lets her head droop onto his shoulder. Her hot breath tickles his collarbone, the dip between that peeks above the neckline of his white v-neck, the one that’s been washed too many times and stretched out to shapelessness and smell likes Dave even when it’s clean, cinnamon and gunpowder, the distinct smoke of scotch.

He drops the stub on the ground, the end burning a dim orange as it dies out. She tilts her head up, lips pressing against his jaw, leaving a mark of rouge onto his summer-tanned skin.

 _Where to now,_ she asks him.

Dave’s expression is distant when he tucks a tendril of hair behind her ear, and she closes her eyes for a few seconds and thinks of a place, the one she has dreams about; of bare toes in a lake, dragonflies flittering around, stripped down to cotton. A tender bruise. Marlboros and a blanket of indigo sky.

 _Everywhere_ , he tells her.

They leave Texas just after they catch the first glimpse of a star in the sky. Dave gives her his leather jacket, and he steals glances at her when she curls up, her head pressed up against the glass window. He catches a whisper of the crooning on the radio, low and broken-hearted, and drives on.

*

Somewhere in Kansas, they hold up a bank. Dave is all Southern drawl and sharp toothed smile, promising murder in eyes that can’t be seen. Revolver and cigarette in hand, Rose shrugs her disinterest. She doesn’t bat an eyelash when an old man drops to his knees, clutching at her ankles, begging for mercy, pure mercy.

She pulls the trigger without a second thought and feels faint annoyance that her suede skirt now has bloodstains on them. Dave gives a laugh when she voices her irritation. 

The bank is all vermillion splattered, bodies strewn everywhere and Dave hurries to collect their prize before anyone catches them, while Rose guards the door. This is all routine, including the way he sweeps the place one last time for any remaining victims.

She hears the scream of a little girl tear through the light and back again on to the point where it begins, and she shifts in her spot. Dave comes out with a hefty bag filled with cash and he gives her a smile, teeth flecked with blood.

 _Just some kid_ , he reassures. _Bitch was tryin' to call the cops._

Rose tells him to wait for her in the car while she uses the restroom, and looks for the girl he killed. She finds her limp in a pool of her own blood, little blonde head bashed in. The girl is only about seven. Rose feels a low churning in her gut that she doesn’t understand. She doesn’t piss, but she takes the red ribbon that ties the girl’s hair up, clean and perfectly knotted, and puts it in the pocket of her skirt.

When she gets back to the Impala, Rose takes off everything she’s wearing except for her garter and her beret, and throws it all under the seat. Dave says something about New Mexico and pearl earrings – _Sweetheart_ , _I’ll get you_ _everything you want_ , he promises her. _Everything._

His voice is dark and smooth, like warm liquor pooling in her stomach, so hopeful that she forgets the ache in her chest. She believes him. 

*

They’ve woken up in many beds, in many different states but they’re all the same in theory: run-down motels at the edge of near ghost towns, dusty corners, broken mattress springs. Dave remembers to never feel at home, and teaches Rose to do the same.

Still, the sun rises slightly, dim light seeping through the thin cracks where the drapes don’t meet, just barely dawn. Rose sleeps soundly, hand under her pillow where he knows her pistol is placed. He watches, props himself up on an elbow and doesn’t care when the bedspring digs into his ribs.

He won’t admit that he likes this: the rise and fall of her bare chest when she turns over, the soft murmurs that escape from her lips, the faint flexing of her fingers reaching out to touch him.

Dave eases himself lower down the bed, past her ribs and her latest bruises, and pushes the thin blanket aside. She still smells like the night before, musk of him and her, and suddenly his chest feels tight, conflicting. (He doesn’t think of her eyes, lovely wide, narrowed, _shut_ when she gasps his name over and over, promising.) He presses a kiss to her inner thigh, and gets no response.

Rose finally stirs when she feels his breath hot on her, cheek rough from just a single day’s worth of stubble. She murmurs his name, questioning, when he slides his tongue lazily over her slit—she says, _Oh_.

Her hands come down tentatively to his hair, gently pulling him closer, and Dave feels himself twitch, in awe of how slick she quickly becomes. ( _Just you, just you,_ she had told him once. _Only you.)_ He fucks her with his tongue, tracing letters with careful, slow movements. He manages to spell out _I love_ just as she grips his hair tighter.

Pressing into her more, nosing at her clit, he dips his tongue in deeper until she bucks against him. Easing a single finger in, he fucks her slowly; she clenches and arches, pleading.

He doesn’t like to play around, not on mornings like these, not when Rose says his name in that voice, the one that has a shiver running through the entire length of his body. _Please_ , she says, and he gives, gives until her legs tremble, until all she sees is white, hot and throbbing. He slows the sweeps of his tongue, and she relaxes around him.

Dave pays no mind to his cock painfully straining against his briefs; instead, he pulls away, her slickness covering his lips and chin, and kisses right below her navel.  _Just you_ , he mouths. _Only you._

She pulls him up, kisses him wet and open mouthed, tasting the unspoken words on his tongue.

*

His hair is getting long.

She cuts his hair in the bathtub, slow snips at the nape of his neck where blond strands have curled in like tendrils. It’s not often they get to take baths, and Dave is tired, eyes drooping, head lowered down while she cuts away tentatively. He feels her blowing on his neck, little locks of hair flitting down into the water.

There is gentle sloshing when she moves to get his straight razor, the one he uses for his stubble on some mornings; she says it might not be a good idea to use it. He tells her he doesn’t care.

Held tightly between her fingers, Rose is careful as she cuts away the remaining patch of hairs that don’t belong, meticulous in shaving as she is in all other things. His body vibrates with silent laughter— _that tickles,_ he says—and she slips up, nicking his neck and drawing just a drop of red that slides down the expanse of his back.

Dave’s calm when she drops the razor into the tub, calm when she starts to apologize profusely, calm when he turns around and pulls her close, soft breasts pressed up against his solid frame. She nuzzles herself into him and he watches blood mix down into the water, fading pink in the white lather. It still smells of ivory soap. 

He doesn’t do anything when she starts to cry. 

*

Outside of an abandoned theme park in Arizona, they drink coca colas. They press them up to their foreheads, ice cool, hair all matted up. He pulls out his silver flask and pours vodka into his glass bottle, passing it onto Rose who does the same. The heat is sweltering, golden rays beating down, and he pushes up his sunglasses to the top of his head. Dave’s eyes are bright and sun-flecked.

She likes this—the poetry of daylight. The shift in his shoulder blades when he dips his head back slightly, gulping his drink; the scorch of a summer drugged afternoon. Unexpected sweetness in lingering touches. Tan lines peeking out from his wife beater, hinting at the places that she sees that no one else does.

 _Do you ever miss it,_ she asks suddenly _. Home._

There’s a moment of silence, and Dave swallows the rest of his pop. A drop of sweat slides down her forehead; she sticks out her tongue to taste it. She’s thinking he’s not going to answer her when he rolls the bottle in his hands, fingers holding onto the skinny neck.

 _Never_ , he says. _You are my home, Rose._

She forgets she’s holding anything when her belly aches with overwhelming want; her hands in his hair, her mouth on his neck, her breath in his ear. _Fuck me,_ she whispers. And Dave, Dave does, pushing her down in the back seat of the Impala, kissing her like a man gone mad with hunger. He goes slow, buries himself deep until he’s all she can feel inside, and promises her again and again: _Je t'aime, Je t'aime. Je ne laisserai jamais._

_*_

_(I love you, I love you. I will never leave.)_


End file.
